


Sherlock fic: Just you (1/1)

by dominique012



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dominique012/pseuds/dominique012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Archived from S1, all those years ago: My first ever <i>Sherlock</i> fic! I'm so nervous I could wet myself. But don't worry, I won't. Hope you enjoy. :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sherlock fic: Just you (1/1)

**Author's Note:**

> Archived from S1, all those years ago: My first ever _Sherlock_ fic! I'm so nervous I could wet myself. But don't worry, I won't. Hope you enjoy. :)

Pairing: John/Sherlock, pre-slash  
Rating: G  
Words: 2174  
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers. Little bit of injury/blood  
Written for [](http://burnt-hamster.livejournal.com/profile)[**burnt_hamster**](http://burnt-hamster.livejournal.com/) at the [](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com/)**sherlockmas** ficathon.  
Notes: My first ever _Sherlock_ fic! I'm so nervous I could wet myself. But don't worry, I won't. Hope you enjoy. :)

I.  
Sherlock pressed his forehead against the window, fingertips resting on the sill. The cool glass on his skin was somewhat soothing. His view of the street - cars, Christmas lights, chilly shoppers trundling home with bags and parcels - blurred before his tired eyes.

The room was dark. He hadn’t been bothered to switch on the lights. The darkness was somehow preferable to the clean and tidy landscape which was now the flat.

Mrs Hudson had done a thorough clean-up while Sherlock had been at the hospital. She’d not touched any of his experiments of course, though in the kitchen she had attempted to wipe down the benchtop and tuck the clean dishes safely in the cupboard. Sherlock imagined her vacuuming and dusting and straightening each room, mentally tallying up all the extra rent they’d be paying as she found the most recent holes and burns that they’d managed to hide.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling an unpleasant grittiness. He knew he needed a shower. Needed food. Sleep. That it showed. The nurses had told him to go home. They had pushed him out the door this time, instead of merely suggesting he ‘get some rest’.

But arriving home, he had found himself unable to just get it done - clean up, refuel, rest. At the top of the stairs his mind had flown back to John as he’d left him at the hospital - wan, bruised, breathing weakly. A sharp twist of guilt and fear and pain had caught in his gut; he’d had to grip the door handle with one hand and the banister with the other just to catch his breath.

And now he was just standing, staring out the window. He turned abruptly and looked at the table. No tea mugs, no newspaper. No take away containers. John’s laptop had been dusted and sat silently next to a tidy stack of books.

He shivered. It was cold and he felt hollow.

 

II.  
 _Sherlock grips the gun, his arm straight. He walks slowly, listening. Tension holds his body upright, tightens every muscle so that he aches all over. He prefers running. A run and a fight are infinitely preferable to this painful, slow uncertainty._

_The fluorescent lights hum above him. Other than that and his soft footsteps, there is nothing. He glances down at his phone, checking for reception._

_He continues his slow path down to the carpark’s lower level. Wonders exactly how quickly he’d be able to start running if he needed to._

_And then there’s John, crumpled on the ground ahead of him._

_“John.” The concrete is cold and hard as Sherlock kneels down to support John’s head._

_John is clutching his right leg. “Sherlock.” Just a whisper._

_Sherlock sees the blood oozing from John’s thigh. The coldness from the floor seems to sweep up suddenly into Sherlock’s chest. He grabs his phone. “I’m calling.”_

_He tries to keep his voice level while describing the location and John’s injuries, knowing that lucid, calm information will get John to safety more quickly. But there’s blood all over John’s hands, and his cheeks are pallid, and his breathing so shaky. Sherlock sucks in a gasp of air. “Hurry. Just hurry.”_

_He sits down, supporting John’s body with his own, pressing his jacket to the bullet wound in John’s leg. Watches it quickly become soaked with blood._

_John tries to talk to him; the fool attempts to look up at him even though his left eyelid is split and bloody; angry red welts covering half his face._

_“Alright. It’s alright, John.” Sherlock winces as he hears himself trying to be comforting. Stupid words. He sweeps his fingers gently across John’s forehead and into his hair. Tries to focus his voice. “I’m here. Help is coming. Just stay still for now.” He runs his hand gently down John’s arm, catching blood-stained fingers in his own._

_“Please,” he hears himself whisper._

III.  
“He’s going to need looking after at home.” The doctor’s tone was doubtful.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock glanced around the busy hospital corridor. He couldn’t keep the impatience out of his voice.

The doctor gave him an incredulous look. Sherlock pressed his lips together and tried to sound reasonable, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the urge to simply cease the ridiculous talking and run to John’s room and just _take_ him home.

“It’s fine. I live with him. I can follow instructions...if I need to. Look after him.” He cleared his throat. “His injuries.”

The doctor frowned. “I understand there’s a sister?"

Sherlock looked away, suppressing all the obvious statements that he knew wouldn't help him: _She has a drinking problem. He doesn’t like her very much. He lives with me. I need -_.

“They’re...not close," he said. "And she’s having some marital problems. I’m right there in the flat. I don’t have any - other - commitments." He paused between each of the last three words, voice calm, trying to seem convincing. His mind leaped hopefully to one last enticement: “And...we have a housekeeper." _Landlady_ , in his head Mrs Hudson corrected him.

Caring for the injured was completely outside his speciality and, now more than ever, he knew this was painfully obvious. Sherlock clenched his fists within his pockets and breathed in. _Breathe. Smile._

The doctor seemed thrown off. He handed Sherlock a list of instructions. "I'll go over this with you. It’s -"

The rest of the sentence faded as Sherlock grabbed the paper like a lifeline.

IV.  
“Not psychosomatic this time, is it?” John smiled thinly as he gripped the cane and limped slowly towards Sherlock who had just arrived at the hospital room.

“Should you be up, walking around like that?”

He was taking John home. The cab was waiting on the street.

“I’m fine. I have to get out of this bloody hospital.”

Sherlock regarded him. John was, frankly, still a mess. The bullet wound on his leg was stitched up and clean; coming along fine, apparently, but the stitches on his eye and the fearsome cuts and bruising on his face were likely to scare Mrs Hudson half to death. And it was plain from John’s posture that there were countless other injuries currently hidden that were still causing him pain. Still, Sherlock knew better than to mention the wheelchair suggested by the nurses.

“Right then, cab’s waiting.” Sherlock picked up John’s bag from the bed and they headed slowly down the corridor.

John was quiet on the ride home. He looked tired. Sherlock drummed softly on the door handle, his eyes darting around. He held John’s pain medication in one hand. Staring unseeingly at the little bottle, he wondered, not for the first time, if he could really do it.

It was rare that his desired outcome did not match up with his ability. Usually, he wanted to find the truth and it was just a question of making a start. Now he wanted to take care of John, help him through the recovery, just be there with him. Even in his mind it sounded strange, almost ridiculous.

He swallowed, realising that once they got home, he actually had no idea what he was supposed to do. He bit his lip, thinking of the doctor’s instructions. He would start there.

The frantic string of thoughts was interrupted by the sudden warmth of John’s hand over his, stilling the incessant rattle of the pills. Sherlock turned to meet his quizzical smile.

“Are you alright? You look a bit...panicky.”

Sherlock nodded. His gaze fell to John’s hand. “Yes. Just thinking about your recovery.”

John gave Sherlock’s fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I’m just glad to be going home.” He moved his hand back to the cane.

Sherlock nodded again and exhaled. “Yes.”

He rested his fingers on the back of his hand, where John’s had been.

V.  
As they walked through the door, John turned to him. “Got anything in? I’m starving.”

The most obvious answer was no. And Sherlock had, in fact, wondered exactly the same thing just before leaving for the hospital. Luckily he’d checked. With great satisfaction, he ushered John into a chair and said, “Actually - yes. We have a chicken and vegetable pie, and...some kind of saucy pudding.”

John chuckled. “Ah, Mrs Hudson. Bless her.” He shifted gingerly around in the chair.

Sherlock nodded. “She’s done a shop, cooked, and tidied up, though she did warn me that she’s -"

“Not our housekeeper.” John smiled up at him, and Sherlock exhaled feeling a sudden, profound relief. John was home. Broken, but home.

“So.” Sherlock looked around. "I suppose it’s tea, then?”

John made a surprised sound. “You’re going to make me tea?”

Sherlock glanced down and then around the room. “Yes, John. I can make tea. And I can check your dressings. I’m going to...”

He felt self conscious, which was maddening. He knew John’s comment about the tea was light hearted, but if Sherlock himself was doubting that he could care for his friend, what must John be thinking?

“You’re going to...” John’s voice was warm, and a little softer that usual. “Look after me?”

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. So. Tea and then I think I should check your dressings. It’s on the doctor’s list.”

John looked thoughtful but merely nodded. Sherlock felt suddenly foolish. He had a sudden mental image of a fish flapping helplessly on the footpath. Out of water. He scowled, unintentionally directing it at John.

John frowned back at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Sherlock felt suddenly exhausted. He turned and flopped down on the sofa. “I’m an idiot, John.”

John smiled. “Well. That’s occasionally my opinion. It’s not usually yours.”

Sherlock clutched at a handful of hair on the top of his head in exasperation. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

John cocked his head to the side. “Sherlock. What are you doing? Sitting on the sofa and over dramatizing.”

“No, John.” Sherlock knew he sounded impatient again. “I’m _caring_ for you.” The words felt alien on his tongue.

“You know - you haven’t even put the kettle on yet.” John sounded amused.

Sherlock looked dully at him. He knew he sounded ridiculous. He felt ridiculous. He stared at the worn surface of the sofa.

“John, I - “ A lengthy pause. “John.” He chewed his lip. “I hated seeing you so badly hurt. I hated that I’d led you down there.” The words rushed out of his mouth and he dared not think too much for fear of getting stuck again.

John exhaled, but didn’t interrupt.

Sherlock kept his eyes firmly on the material of the sofa. "You've been very important, in my work, to the cases. Invaluable in fact.” He remembered to take a breath. “And also, just important. Just...without the cases.”

He chanced a look up at John’s face, and found that it hurt a bit, looking at the warmth in John’s eyes, the concern etched in his features. _This caring lark_ , he thought suddenly.

"It’s been so strange and cold here while you’ve been in hospital." he said finally, feeling silly.

“You didn’t just lead me, Sherlock.” John said quietly. “I understood the danger. It wasn’t your fault.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“Anyway,” John went on. “You were there for me. You’re here for me now. That’s the important thing. That’s...really all - “ He looked awkwardly around the room. “That’s everything.”

Sherlock felt a perplexing flutter in his chest. “I was trying," he said slowly, “to be the person who would...help you. Through the recovery.” He nodded to himself slowly. “That sort of important person.”

“You are.” John spoke quickly. His eyes were wide and he leaned forward slightly in the chair.

“But I don’t know what to do," Sherlock continued. "I don’t know what you need.” He had never felt so ridiculously without a clue.

John smiled. “I really don’t need much right now. He gestured vaguely around the flat. “This. Bit of chicken pie. Some rest. ” His hand swept the space in front of Sherlock. “Your help, bandages and what not. Just - you.” The last word, spoken very quietly.

Sherlock felt suddenly light and rather nervous at the same time.

“What about you?” John went on. “What do you...need?”

Sherlock felt that, given John’s injuries and obvious need to recover, it was a silly question. For Sherlock himself to need anything. But his mind flew back to the cold, empty strangeness of 221B without John. The cold empty strangeness of _Sherlock_ without him. He shook his head. “Nothing. The work.” He breathed in, forcing himself to look at John. “You. Here.”

Despite his awful injuries, John’s face lit up. Sherlock realised suddenly how very good that was.

“Well.” John said, “Maybe we can just work out the rest.”

Sherlock's nervous feelings began dissipating, and he was unable to keep from smiling at John. He nodded. “Alright.”

John grinned back mischievously and looked towards the kitchen. “So. You did say tea?”

**end**  



End file.
